One Snowy Evening
by JinniaFlyer450
Summary: Puzzle pieces are beginning to fall into place. Offscreen Phoenix/Franziska.


A little hand reached into the box, fishing out one of innumerable little pieces. It moved through the air, settling over a clump of interlinked pieces with a gaping hole near the center. The hand twisted the piece around, an accompanying eye observing its peculiar shape as compared to that of the hole. The face twisted into a focused scowl. No. Not this one. The hand carefully set the piece aside for later use, returning to the box for another piece.

"So, he still hasn't spoken?" A silver-haired man watched from the couch, face knotted with concern. He set his cup of tea down on the coaster on an end-table. He looked at a picture on the wall, avoiding eye contact with his companion. His voice was soft, mindful of the child sitting a few feet away. The boy may or may not be listening, after all.

"No. At this point, we've tried almost everything we can, and we still are. He still goes to see the therapist twice a week. She's not sure what else to do either. If he talks, he talks. If he doesn't, he doesn't, and we'll find a way around that." The silver-haired man's companion, a dark-haired man in a blue suit, sighed heavily, eyes on the scene in front of him, voice equally quiet.

"I would ask how his mother is taking it, but she's already talked to me about it several times." The silver-haired man reached for his cup of tea, taking another sip.

Another sigh from the blue-suited man. "Yes. It's been difficult for all of us, but she's been taking it especially hard. She's feverishly searching for another route to try; some kind of perfect magic bullet. I would be annoyed if I didn't understand." He paused, thinking. "She would have liked to have been here to see you, by the way. Interpol intervened."

The silver-haired man raised his shoulders in a gentle shrug. "Duty calls. We both know that quite well."

A little boy wandered into the room. A little cravat fluttered slightly as he moved; he looked around, grinning widely. "Hi, Dad. Hi, Uncle Edgeworth. He turned toward the hearth. "Hi, Spike."

"Spike" looked at the newcomer's shoulder, expression habitually blank. He attempted to turn back to his work, delving back into his realm of focus. This distraction was nothing new, nor had it ever been.

"Spike!" The newcomer was having none of that. He knelt, extending an arm and ruffling Spike's hair. Spike turned and shoved him away; the newcomer giggled and pushed back, almost knocking Spike backward into his carefully laid puzzle. Spike's eyes flashed in anger, and he shoved back, huffing. The newcomer blinked, getting up and backing away. "Okay, okay. Jeez!"

The blue-suited man seemed vaguely tired, eyes beholding a scene he could do to see less of. In an attempt to chastise the boy, he sighed, "Miles, you know that's never a good idea."

"I know, I know! I'm not stupid! I just…you know. I was just looking for a little fun, and I hoped…" Miles looked back at his brother, who had returned to piecing together the puzzle, eyes and hands continuing to fill gaps.

"His idea of fun is different than yours, Miles. Especially when he's working. You have to respect that."

"But it's no fair! What's the point of having a little brother if you can't play with him?" Miles whined, turning back toward his father.

"Miles, _leave him be_." His father sent Miles a harsh glare. "He clearly doesn't like it, and that's the end of that."

Miles grumbled and stormed off, muttering about the injustice of it all. The silver-haired man watched after him, vaguely amused. "Franziska chose his outfit, I assume?"

The blue-suited man grinned, running his fingers through his eternally-spiky hair. "Yes and no. He was the one who wanted to dress up; she helped him with choosing individual pieces and whatnot. She has outfits for Trucy and Lawrence, too, but she very quickly discovered that Lawrence isn't a fan of formalwear. Especially not anything that goes around his neck. She said she's never seen anyone learn how to untie a cravat that quickly," The blue-suited man laughed, the sheepish smile only widening, "Same goes for neckties. As for the Truce…she'll wear it to make her mom happy, but it's obvious she prefers her show clothes."

The silver-haired man's gaze turned back to Lawrence crouching over his puzzle. Deeply in thought, the man muttered, "Lawrence. What are you thinking, Lawrence?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? Only he knows, and he isn't telling." The blue-suited man leaned back into the couch, pensive.

The silver-haired man took another sip of tea, set his teacup on the end-table, and stood, silently approaching Lawrence. As the man knelt, the boy looked up briefly, then returned to work, seemingly uninterested in the person who had come to join him. Slowly, carefully, the man retrieved a piece from the box, attempting to fit it into an empty space. Nope. Not this one. He traded that piece for another, repeating the process several times. The blue-suited man watched, gaze gentle.

An hour passed. The silver-haired man didn't notice it the first few times; the blue-suited man did, but merely smiled and observed as the little spiky-haired boy nudged a piece closer to his companion on the floor. Eventually, it seemed that the silver-haired man caught on. He looked at all the pieces that the boy had tossed him and jumped, muttering. He spread the pieces in the pile out slightly, comparing the pile to the picture on the box.

"These pieces…is that an order, Lawrence?" A half-smile. Obvious amusement, mixed with something else.

"Hm?" The blue-suited man's eyebrows lifted, and he leaned forward, attempting to see what the silver-haired man had noticed was amiss.

"Come and see, if you would like. Maybe you'll catch it, too." Yes, there was definitely a note of something else in that smile. Mischief? Wonder?

The blue-suited man rose off the couch, taking a seat next to the silver-haired man on the carpet. He pored over the pile, flipping all of the pieces over to the printed sides, holding them up to the light…

"…He gave you all the red ones." The blue-suited man nodded, as if to prove his point.

The silver-haired man shook his finger, looking smug. "Not _all_ of them. And not all the pieces are red. No, he's done something else. Take a closer look, Wright. Preferably at the box this time."

"Wright" looked closer, comparing the colors on the pieces to the picture of the puzzle on the box. What could the silver-haired man have been talking about? His first theory had been incorrect—yes, there were pieces with not a hint of red on them mixed into the pile—but couldn't that just mean he had handed the silver-haired man pieces at random from the ones he had already tried? No, there was too much red in the pile for it to be entirely random. Besides, "random" would not have caught the other man's attention.

Lawrence, for his part, paid no visible attention to the men analyzing his actions, instead continuing to slowly, methodically add more pieces to his portion of the puzzle.

Wright stopped, looking at the pile as a whole and at the picture one last time. The specific combination of colors…what did it mean? Why would Lawrence choose those pieces to give to the older man?

_(Waaaaaait a minute…Oh. Oh!)_

"So you figured it out, Wright. It's fairly simple, once you understand." The silver-haired man adjusted his glasses, tossing Wright that crooked half-smile again.

"…I've got it, but…do you think he did it on purpose, Edgeworth?" A sense of wonder was infiltrating Wright's voice. He looked over at his little boy, still absorbed in working.

"Wright. It is highly unlikely that he would have given me pieces from the southwest corner of the puzzle and _only_ pieces from the southwest corner of the puzzle if he didn't have some idea of what he was doing. Especially since there are several sections of a very similar shade of red elsewhere. No, it was _no_ accident." The silver-haired man's glasses flashed in the light of the roaring fire—or was it his eyes?

One minute, Lawrence was hunched over his puzzle, seemingly oblivious to the mindless prattle. The next minute, a pair of eyes slid upward, cautiously examining the silver-haired man. The ghost of a smile played on the boy's lips. Just as the two men registered what had just taken place, Lawrence was back at work, carefully positioning the next piece of the puzzle.

Wright's mouth dropped open; Edgeworth turned to find the other man blinking back tears. "Wright. What…?"

"I've…I've never seen him do that before…Not of his own volition." Wright's voice caught in his throat. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see it. He never looks people in the eye, Edgeworth. You've met him before. You know that." Wright stared at the fire, almost shaking.

Edgeworth bowed his head, seeming to recognize the gravity of the moment. They sat there for a while; the busy little boy and the pensive middle-aged men. After a time, Edgeworth returned to work as well; Wright almost seemed intimidated by the circumstances, instead preferring to gaze upon the rapidly growing puzzle.

Fifteen minutes passed. Aside from the tell-tale outlines zig-zagging across the puzzle, it matched the picture on the box perfectly.

Edgeworth nodded at Lawrence. "A fine job, young man." While the comment didn't merit more eye contact, it did merit another ghostly smile, aimed at the ground; Wright jolted slightly, looked away, attempted to keep his composure. Edgeworth stood; Wright and Lawrence followed suit.

Edgeworth smiled back at Lawrence, and then turned to his father. "I will be returning next Sunday. Have another puzzle prepared," Edgeworth closed his eyes, thinking, "Unless…perhaps I shall bring my portable chess set."

Wright blinked. "You think…"

"He seems to be able to strategize remarkably well for someone his age, and he has a good eye for detail. I…have a sneaking suspicion that he would enjoy the game." Edgeworth adjusted his glasses.

Wright grinned, looking between one of his best friends and his son. "Well, then, bring the chess set! Maybe you'll finally have a worthy opponent!" Wright elbowed Edgeworth's side, grinning like a fool.

Edgeworth raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into an accommodating smile. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Wright. I simply suggested that he would enjoy it. Even that hypothesis has yet to be tested." Edgeworth plucked his trench coat off the rack, sliding his arms into the sleeves.

"Okay, okay, Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth. Whatever you say." The grin refused to vacate Wright's face. Edgeworth sighed. Seriously, the man was impossible.

"In any case, I must take my leave. Farewell, Wright." Edgeworth stepped toward the door, twisting the knob. A blast of chill air wooshed into the room, causing Wright and Lawrence to back away slightly. Edgeworth, on the other hand, continued out into the cold. Snow immediately began to collect in his hair and in the folds of his coat. It would be a rough drive home, he knew. Not because he was particularly unskilled in driving in snow—he had driven enough in a snow-covered Germany, among other places—but because (this being Los Angeles), other drivers might not nearly have the same expertise. He sighed, mentally preparing himself.

"Goodbye, Edgeworth!" Wright called from the doorway, smiling and waving.

Suddenly, something nudged past Wright, squeezing in between the doorframe and the man's side. Lawrence shuffled out into the snow, feet dragging, eyes directed at Edgeworth's footprints. When he caught up to Edgeworth—at which point the man was almost at his car—he tugged at Edgeworth's trench coat. Edgeworth whirled around in surprise. "Wha—Lawrence?"

The little boy, eyes on Edgeworth's shoes, extended his right hand, expectant. It was a gesture he'd seen several times before; his father had occasionally brought clients to their house. He had seen the ritual enough times.

Edgeworth slowly, gently took the boy's hand and shook it, absolutely silent.

Lawrence, his mission complete, turned and shuffled back to his home, squeezing back in between his father and the doorframe. Edgeworth entered his car, driving off into the snow. Wright shut the door and moved into the kitchen, taking out cocoa, sugar, milk, and four cups.

He knew how much _all_ of his children—especially the little spiky-haired one—loved hot chocolate, after all.


End file.
